


Raw

by Nightbard



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Things will probably change in general I just come up with stuff as I go, Writer should also know better than to write stuff in the middle of the night., might not always be one-sided, one-sided, writer knows absolutely nothing about Paris
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4760138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightbard/pseuds/Nightbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>R is out drinking. Apparantly so was Enjolras. Things are quite difficult when you're used to people not expecting anything from you. Set in the 19th century.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Raw

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE read the notes at the end :)  
> Also my first fic ever, woh! ... or booh.

Raw. _Raw_ was the only way to describe this cold and wet Parisian night. It had been raining all weekend starting Thursday night with full fury at once, roaring so loudly it had even interrupted Enjolras in the middle of a furious rant and made the blonde leader turn his head and look out the window with a furrow. He had given the storm the same annoyed expression he used to give Grantaire, in a way, he found it fantastic that he had something in common with the rain.

The sole of Grantaire’s left boot had worn out so badly he could feel the filthy water seep through the thin leather and wet his foot, making it cold and uncomfortable to walk. Soon, he thought, he’d be too drunk to notice, so why spend money going to the cobbler when the alcohol gave him even more pleasure?

After all, fixing his boots would stop him from feeling the wet foot – however, Alcohol would stop him from feeling _anything_ , at least for a little while. He couldn’t ask for much more.

He walked down the narrow alley and tried not to slip on the wet cobblestones and not to step in any puddles of sick, especially not with his left foot.

Musain was the best, but it wasn’t as close to his flat – well, _attic._ That was one of the reasons, at least.

He just didn’t want to spend time with them today, not when he felt as bad as he did right now. His latest painting had been a failure and it felt as if his fingers and imagination abruptly had stopped communicating, like a quarrelling young couple breaking up.

He bowed his head against the gust of wind sweeping up as he snuck around the corner, only a few meters left now. The alleys and small side-streets were empty but most windows were lit and he could hear the noises from the crowded tavern even before he opened the creaking door.

The air was thick and reeked of alcohol, but Grantaire was far too used to the air to be affected.

This wasn’t a student tavern, and in other words he wasn’t greeted with raised glasses or a “Hey, Grantaire!” from any fellow student or being asked to make anyone company, and that way he wouldn’t have to feel lonely if he wasn’t invited at all.

 

All he needed was to get drunk, and that was it. No more, no less.

 

Grungy wasn’t enough to describe the tavern, it was as if he was seeing everything through a filthy piece of glass, he didn’t even dare to guess whether there was an actual floor beneath the dirt.

 

 

Half an hour later he had almost downed his bottle, an hour more and his vision had gone slightly blurry and his mind numb. He raised the half-empty bottle to some drunk prostitutes that he had already turned down, claiming he wasn’t drunk enough as a witty remark.

“Busy night” he said as he woman behind the old bar. She had orange curls and a fierce temper, which probably came in handy in an environment like this.

“Good for the business” she answered “’ts a miracle we have only had one minor brawl tonight.”

He put the pennies on the counter and was just about to grab the bottle when his eyes suddenly locked on something in the corner – or someone holding _something_. His stomach turned.

“How much for this one, lads? Good condition!” a somewhat drunk man said – though he could almost be considered sober, he was far from the worst in here.

It wasn’t the man that had his breath hitching, but the red jacket he was holding.

He could recognise that jacket _anywhere_ , if it had been shredded to pieces of square inches, he’d probably be able to put it back together by heart.

“What’s-“ he started, then swallowed, he looked at the barmaid. “What-“ he stuttered again. “I know that jacket..!”

“Huh?” she looked up, then looked in the direction which he was pointing with his shaky finger.

“He’s probably all right, he’s at the back” she said “might be a bit cold if that’s his jacket.”

He must have looked dumbstruck, as she sighed and let out a further explanation with a I-really-haven’t-got-time-for-this expression on her chubby face.

“The lad got into a brawl earlier, got knocked out and now he’s at the back. I can’t really be bothered stopping them from stealing his belongings, I am busy as it is. Now move along.” She said impatiently and shoved the nearly forgotten bottle towards him.

He ignored it and walked towards the corner, striding fast. They were touching Enjolras’ jacket, but to him, they might as well burn the holy bible in front of him.

 

He shouldn’t be in this situation, he could hardly grasp it. Enjolras – _that_ Enjolras must have been knocked out. But how on earth did that happen? Enjolras would never enter a place like this without a friend by his side, and if he did, he would certainly not get into a fight, would he?

Well, he probably _would_ by being a revolutionary fanatic.

“Give me that.” He snapped and grabbed the jacket and jerked it out of the drunkard’s hand so hard he feared it would break.

“What else have you stolen from him?” he asked furiously.

They didn’t answer, but he couldn’t really think of what else there were to steal. Perhaps his shoes?

If they had stolen any money, there was no way of getting it back, and money was just... money. It came and it went.

He cradled the jacket close to his chest as he headed towards the back. He wasn’t worthy, but neither was any of them. Did they even know what they had done?

 

He had to push a company aside to get to the back door but his beating heart and blood rushing in his ears drowned their angry comments about his behaviour.

“What are ye doing back here? Out with ye!” an angry barman said carrying a crate with dusty wine.

“I’m looking for my friend.” He said “Blonde hair.”

“Yer friend, ye say?” he asked with a grunt. “I rely on ye takin’ him with ye then” he nodded towards the right. “in there and away with ye!”

 

Where were Combeferre?  The leader’s right-hand and best friend would never let anyone hurt him unpunished. Or Courferac, or Bousset or _anyone_.

Anyone but _him_.

He was the drunk, he was no good – Enjolras’ own words, actually – he shouldn’t be dealing with _things_.

The hallway was very narrow and the wallpaper was peeling off. There were no pictures of any sort either.

The door to the left was slightly ajar and opened soundlessly.

He wished he had been wrong all the time, he even wished he would have to go out to the drunkards and give them the jacket back, he’d even apologise if he had to.

 

He didn’t even need to see the face to know it was him, the golden curls and pale skin was enough to make his heart stop for a second, then he managed to force his legs to carry him a few steps closer before falling to his knees.

This was as religious he’d ever be, he thought. This wasn’t just a brawl, it wasn’t theft – this was desecration.

 

Enjolras was breathing, he didn’t even need to touch him to notice that. He was lying on his stomach, probably left like that after they had taken his jacket. The window was broken and the room was cold.

What was he supposed to do? He felt helpless.

Get him out of here, was the obvious answer. But where? He did know where he lived, not that he had ever visited, he had just... looked it up. For reasons that had nothing to do with his starving heart or obsession to do.

 

“Apo-“ he started with a hoarse voice, but stopped “ _Enjolras_?” he asked instead. Nothing, not even a small moan.

He had a faint idea of where Feuilly lived, but he couldn’t run there, knock on the door and ask him to run back to the tavern with him to carry Enjolras home.

 

His home was closest in distance, but at the top floor and, well, Enjolras didn’t even _like_ him. He barely tolerated his presence at the meetings, but he was probably just allowing him to be there to be somewhat greater in number.

“Right.” He told himself and reached out to touch him. It shouldn’t be allowed, he still wasn’t _worthy_.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled and rolled him over onto his back. He had a split lip and a bruise right beneath it, but otherwise it didn’t look too bad from here.

His thoughts were interrupted by the old man’s voice from the doorway.

“What are ye weeping for? He aint lookin’ ‘eavy” he strode across the floor.

He certainly wasn't weeping, just close to freaking out, but there was no use arguing with the old man.

“I’ll give ye a hand” he continued before Grantaire even had the chance of saying anything.

 

Without hesitation the man grabbed Enjolras’ shoulders and pulled him up a bit.

“Just grab ‘im and throw ‘im over yer shoulder, go on.” He said. This wasn’t the time for admiration or worshipping, he soon found himself with the weight of the fearless leader over his shoulder.

“The jacket-“ he said.

The man picked it up and laid it on top of Enjolras’ back.

 

He could hardly feel his own footsteps as he walked straight out of the bar (almost, he sort of had to zigzag his way out) without too many people caring, it wasn’t really a rare sight.

 

It was still raining outside, and this is where he started to panic again. He walked as quickly as he could until he almost slipped and fell on the wet rocks. What if he’d fall and hurt him?

Since that, he treaded a bit more carefully.

It was a fifteen minutes walk from the tavern to his flat’s front door, however, with Enjolras hanging over his shoulder and with the wet ground, it took him closer to half an hour to reach the front door, and by then he was panting heavily.

 

If he put him down, he thought, risk was that he wouldn’t be able to lift him again.

He took one step at the time, all the way up. He had moved a couch up once, but then he had had help from Eponine, swearing far more than a young woman should.

 

“Don’t ever get drunk again” he muttered breathlessly as he reached his front door. He could get it open with one hand and only bumped the blonde’s head against the wall lightly when he stumbled over the threshold into what was his home.

 

His flat was very spartan in its furnishing; he had a bed, a couch and a table. The bottles and the half-finished paintings didn’t count, he told himself, as they both were to be considered hobbies and not permanent furniture, although the bottles made him wonder, at least the dustier ones.

He didn’t think much when he placed the blonde on his bed.

It wasn’t the way he had ever dreamed he’d end up there, but it was as close he’d ever get to that dream. If he memorised the picture of his blond, wet curls spread out over his thin pillow, he could probably fantasise another story around the mental image.

 

He didn’t dare to touch his clothes, not like this, he hardly dared in his dreams, it was always Enjolras doing it then. Pushing them off slowly, or fiercely. Touching him and allowing himself to be touched by him. He had been like a sculptor magically turning the statue back into clay by running his hands over him.

But it had been him dreaming, and he was not foolish enough to read them as signs.

He put his blanket over the still, somewhat androgynous body and let the wet jacket replace his own coat on the hook on the wall.

He gave him a last, longing and admiring look before saying a quiet “Goodnight, Apollo.” Wondering what the reply would have been if he’d only been awake.


	2. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. Enjolras' PoW.

Enjolras woke up with a heavily throbbing head and a painfully full bladder.

His teeth was rattling and his body shivered as he sat up in the cold room. He had no idea where he was, but he was freezing and his clothes were wet.

He almost tripped on the blanket that had been covering his body as he got to his feet and tried to localise himself. He needed to pee desperately, but he couldn’t find a night potty in the darkness. He took a step forwards into the cold room and touched something with his foot, a bottle rolled and he immediately reached down to grab it. It was empty and it was probably the best he could get right now.

_He was wet and cold and peeing in a bottle and he had no idea where he was._

He was never going out drinking alone again; he would have to make all his friends swear to stop him if he mentioned it.

He felt ill and dizzy and when he bent down to put the bottle near down by the wall he felt like throwing up, he had to reach out and put his hand on the wall to steady himself while he caught his breath. What was going _on_?

What had Combeferre and Joly discussed the other day? Hypothermia. Could he be suffering Hypothermia? His clothes were wet, or at least damp, but combined with the chilly room it could be dangerous.

He should strip off and get himself dry, but he didn’t even know where he was. He surely couldn’t lie naked in a stranger’s house.

 

There was a door – well, _obviously_ , Enjolras slowly walked towards it, supporting himself against the wall as he did so. The door was slightly open and when he peeked out he could see the silhouettes of a couch and what could be an easel by the small, dusty window.

 _Easel_ , could this possibly be Grantaire’s home?

It didn’t make sense, yet, it made more sense than any other theories he could come up with.

He had gone to a different tavern, giving up the rainy Paris to find shelter for a little while, then... something had happened. Anyway – he had gone to a tavern and probably gotten drunk, and now he was at Grantaire’s, and as the artist was a bit of a drunkard himself, it wouldn’t be too strange if he bumped into him at a murky tavern, would it?

His teeth rattled so hard his jaw hurt and he had to clench it to make them stop. He stood in the doorway and tried to make up his mind.

 _Please, be Grantaire_. The thought was new in his head, and he never thought he’d wish for _that_.

 _Please be him_. He walked towards the couch, was there someone there? Yes, something _moved_ , if only a little, more as a stir, really.

“ _’Taire?_ ” he stuttered, his voice was hoarse and weak. “ _Grantaire?”_ he tried again, a bit stronger but still hoarse. His throat hurt and he desperately needed to get warm and dry.

“Grantaire.” He said once more “Is that you?”

He heard the rustling of a blanket, then a soft “uh-“ he stared at the couch, holding his breath while his frozen heart was beating faster, desperately trying to keep his body warm.

“Grantaire.” He said once more.

“’pollo?” It was him. There was no doubt, only he insisted on calling him _Apollo_ , he didn’t even know _why_ , only that the young man would grin cheekily whenever he asked him about it.

He settled for the reply and hurried on weak legs back to the room in which he had awoken. He stripped down naked and got back into the bed. If he turned the cover and pillow over, and stayed a bit closer to the wall, he could remain rather dry.

It felt better, getting the wet clothes off. Knowing it was Grantaire made all the difference, he wasn’t a stranger, he wasn’t really a _friend_ , but he would understand if Enjolras was to explain the situation for him.

Tomorrow he would have to ask him what happened, and do something about his clothes.

And the bottle, he though, he had to do something about that as well.

As he pulled his legs up and pressed his arms to his chest to keep them warm, he had a last minute before falling asleep to wonder why on earth he was at Grantaire’s, and why he had the bed when the other man was sleeping on the couch.

Not much made sense with Grantaire, and this just added to the list.

He wasn’t sure whether he was falling asleep or passing out, but then, there wasn’t much to do about it.

 

 

The reason it wasn’t the sun waking him up was both the lack of windows in the bedroom, but also the lack of sun to begin with. He had thought he had grown so used to the sound of rain that he didn’t hear it anymore and today wasn’t different; the stubborn rain was still pitter-pattering down with shifting intensity.

He slowly sat up with a rather loud creaking of the bed. His whole body ached and his head still throbbed. Why did everything feel so heavy?

He heard footsteps on the wooden floor and suddenly Grantaire appeared in the doorway. “Good mor-“ the man started, but lost himself mid-sentence, he looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

Enjolras pulled the cover up a bit, with the shade his skin had taken, a ghost wasn’t too far off.

“Grantaire” he said and broke the awkward silence “What happened, why am I here?” he asked.

“Right.” The man said, clearing his throat. He tossed him a piece of bread.

His stomach growled as his hands made contact with the rather compact sponge-looking thing, but as he bit it he found that it was in fact quite fresh.

“Believe it or not, but our fearless leader got into a brawl last night.” The man said, a brawl? Yes, he could remember some man being rather angry, something about ‘well-dressed pretty boys coming to stir the less fortunate up to get them in trouble’ then it was rather black.

“You got knocked out for quite some time and as soon as they found out I knew you, you became my responsibility. I could not find any other there and I don’t know where you live, and Combeferre was simply too far away.” Grantaire almost sounded apologetic but not in a mocking way, it felt very odd.

“No, no-“ Enjolras held his hand up “Combeferre is away this weekend, visiting his parents.” He moved his hand to his hair, it was still slightly damp but had managed to become quite a mess of blonde curls around his head.

With the other hand he finished off the bread while Grantaire just stood there, quietly watching him.

“Have you got any clothes to lend me?” he asked. “I could have them delivered back to you this very evening, if you so wish.”

Being practical is what chained his mind to the ground right now and stopped it from flying off somewhere.

“Clothes?” Grantaire asked, he sounded surprised by the request, although Enjolras had no idea _why_ as he hadn’t missed that the man had been staring at his bare chest for a rather uncomfortable amount of minutes. “Oh” he said “Right, clothes.”

As he walked towards him, he clutched the thin cover a bit firmer. He felt uncomfortable being this exposed around Grantaire, but the man stopped by the bed and crouched down and he could then hear – and see – the lid of a chest being opened.

Soon a shirt and a pair of trousers hanged over the metal footboard.

“Thank you, Grantaire.” He said as the man stretched his back a little. “I will have them washed before returning them, if you wish.”

Grantaire just let out a shrug “I hardly ever use them.”

“Then I might as well have them washed before returning them.” Enjolras concluded.

It felt strange, meeting Grantaire in what he at least believed to be a sober state.  

 

He stood up once the door was closed and felt how his body immediately started to shiver again. He fumbled with the buttons of the shirt and hadn’t the trousers been slightly too large for him he would have been struggling pulling them up.

“Wow” Grantaire said once Enjolras stepped out of the bedroom into the living room, he held the bottle in one hand and used the other to keep his trousers up, he had thrown his dirty clothes over the shoulder of his jacket.

“Now you almost look as mortal and miserable as the rest of us” he raised his own piss-free bottle in a toast.

There was something Enjolras needed to ask him, now he was slowly regaining his heat and feeling in his toes. Should he, though? Grantaire seemed to slip back into his ordinary attitude.

“Did you actually _carry_ me here?” he asked at last.

“Believe me, it would have been easier with a wheelbarrow” the man said “It wasn’t as if I was given any choice.” But his eyes didn’t fully match the harshness in his words.

“Sorry if I stained your jacket or your pride, Apollo.” He added bitterly and turned back to the bottle.

“You didn’t-“ he started. “I was going to _thank_ you, Grantaire.”  He furrowed his brow. It was back to usual now. Grantaire was being himself and already tried to drive him mad.

“Well, don’t get into more brawls. You’re rubbish at it.”

He clenched his yaw, it hurt a bit – he must have gotten hit.

“Right.” He said “I’ll see you at the meeting.”

The raven haired man just raised the bottle once more.

He left, wondering why he seemed to be the only one not being able to communicate with him. This wasn’t at a meeting, and the others seemed to have somewhat good contact with the drunken cynic.

It wasn’t as if he valued his opinions too much, but it felt as if he was missing out on something. He wasn’t stupid, just hopeless and ever so eager to drive him mad.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this happened and, yeah. I just really lite to experiment writing a story set in their own time and not an AU (although I adore AUs) for fun.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I threw this together in the middle of the night (started half past one, finished 3 am) and I've never published a fic before. I love comments, but I am really not an aspiring writer. English is not my first language and no beta has read this through, please keep this in mind :)


End file.
